


love is not a victory march

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 08-07, Drabble Sequence, F/M, for:phinnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-11
Updated: 2008-07-11
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:08:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know what I'll do without her."</p>
            </blockquote>





	love is not a victory march

**Author's Note:**

> A sequel of sorts to 's sesquidrabble, [here](http://queenzulu.livejournal.com/350975.html?thread=2833407#t2833407). Unbetaed; all faults are my own.

**love is not a victory march**

"...terrible accident."

"so awful."  
"unexpected--"

"too soon."

"she was..."

"...lovely,  
I wish..."

"if you need anything..."

"I'm so sorry, Mark."

Mark looks up. Smiles. Nods. Says thank you. By now, the wheelchair is unfamiliar, but he still can't stand for long periods. He shifts his weight, pushing up with his elbows on the armrests to keep his legs from going numb. He can't keep his hands in one position. After each handshake or awkward half-hug, he places them differently. Cupping the armrests. On his knees. Folded in his lap.

When Wilson arrives, Mark only says, "Tell him to leave."

* * *

The physical therapy went well. Stacy walked with him in the mornings, around their block. Mark laughed at the too-carefully manicured lawns, and Stacy talked about getting a dog. A big one, that would slobber and try to knock her down, haul her along by the leash. She took his arm when he got tired, and just kept talking, her head resting on his shoulder. About home, about what they'd name the dog, about when he'll return to work. Never about Princeton. Mark listened, watching where he placed his feet, and smiled to himself.

He hates that she told him.

* * *

House lurks at the back of the church, leaning against a pillar like a gargoyle. He doesn't turn away when Mark tries to stare him down. His eyes are blank, as if he's been cut open and nothing but empty sky shows through.

"Get him out," Mark says.

Wilson purses his lips. "He loved her," he says. "Don't you think she'd want him here?"

"Yeah," Mark says. Wilson nods and walks away. Mark turns to Anne, a friend of Stacy's from work. The words "sorry, I'm so--" are already forming on her lips.

Mark smiles. Nods. Says thank you.

* * *

Mark grinned, wheeling into the kitchen, the bags of Indian take-out on his lap. He was early, so he stood up long enough to set the table.

"Sorry I'm late," Stacy called. She came in, bending down to kiss him. He clasped her palm to his cheek, watching her smile. "Thank you for getting dinner."

"No problem," he said, still amazed that he could, and started to eat.

Stacy's smile faded. Mark looked up, and saw the unhappy shine of her eyes.

"Hey," he said uneasily. "What's wrong? I thought you liked curry."

"I do," Stacy said. "I love it."

* * *

His brother squeezes his shoulder before he takes the handles of the wheelchair and pushes him to the podium. Mark closes his eyes and listens to a hundred people's soft, wet breathing. He stares over their heads, out the wide, shining windows. The scent of jasmine is stifling. Sweat trickles down from his armpits under the heavy weight of his suit.

He wants to say, "I loved her. I knew her, and I loved her."

But Greg House is standing at the back of the room, refusing to take his eyes away.

Mark hates himself when he starts to cry.

* * *

He wheeled himself into the bedroom after she told him.

Stacy followed him and stood in the doorway. "Please, Mark. I'm sorry."

Mark wishes he could forget how she looked at him then. He wishes he didn't understand.

She looked at him, not like she felt guilty, but as if she pitied him. Not as if she was wrong, but as if she had been wrong long before and had finally realized it.

He didn't leave her. He loved her. But more than that, if he left her, then she'd have Greg House. The bastard who ended up being noble.

* * *

"Give me a minute," Mark says, after the burial.

He turns the chair on the grass. Wilson stands near the graveside, looking back. House hasn't moved. Mark glares at the bent line of his back. House leans both hands on his cane, as if he needs it more than ever.

Wilson goes back. He touches House, his broad hand at the small of House's back. He bends his head, as if he might touch it to House's. House shrugs him off, but Wilson hugs him hard. He doesn't let House pull away.

Mark doesn't wait to watch them leave together.

 

_end_


End file.
